An Artist's Gift
by Space Cat
Summary: A brief one shot deal, delving into the mind of Legato Bluesummers


Author's Notes: Alright, half of this fic is inspired by a conversation I had with a friend of mine. We were talking about Trigun, and he mentioned how freaky Knives was, but I thought Legato was much more scary. Why? I can understand Knives. Of course, this earned me a "What!?", but it's true. Knives is this perfect being, growing up amongst humans that have all acted really bad to each other over the course of the journey, except for Rem, but why would someone want to save people who have messed up so badly? I don't understand Legato at all, though, and I think that's part of the reason why he creeps me out. So I figured I might as well try to write this fic. Face your fears 'n whatnot. The other half of this fic was inspired in the shower, because that's where most of my ideas take fruit. Hope you enj - err, okay, I really hope you don't enjoy this. Heh.  
  
*~  
  
The slight breeze chilled my chest and back, but it was a pleasant feeling, for I knew that I would feel fevered soon enough. Or perhaps not. Every canvas is different. Every unfinished masterpiece elicits a different response from me, and draws out something different. A piece of my life goes into every completed work of art.  
  
Take this one, for instance. The surface was pale white, with a fine sheen to it. Splashes of dark served only to enhance the corpse-like color. A small area of red and gray bothered me briefly, but I let it be. There would be time enough to rid my fine work of art of the unsightly blemishes later. Briefly surveying the waiting carving, I turned and strode to the tray resting by the window.  
  
I made nary a sound as I padded around the tray, impassive eyes picking up the glitter from each tool, my black pants brushing against the wooden table briefly before pulling away. Black resisted stains far more than any other color, I had found.  
  
I hated messes.  
  
They were so hard to clean up, and it took far more effort to do it properly - no. Better to rid myself of the entire problem. Toss out a carpet, perhaps, or, if my newest acquisition was too weak for what I had planned, throw it away. I could find more. It was so hard to find good resources these days.  
  
Picking up a hollowed out sharply pointed metal prong, I let myself smile. I would have to be careful, though. I wanted to give my Master a gift, and this would do very well. In fact, I could imagine only one other thing that would make him happier. He was my center. The only thing that mattered - the only thing that could ever matter. Yes, I would make sure to turn this newest piece into a true gift.  
  
I leaned forward and dug a long furrow along its slope - and it moved. I frowned and shook my head, setting aside the tool for a moment to secure the piece more fully to its specially designed table. I was very proud of this table. It could stand up right, swivel, anything I wanted, really. It was an old friend, stained from long time use, worn down from friction.  
  
Tightening the strap, I saw clearly the weakness that I wanted to exploit. Most artists wanted a structure that had no faults, but I cultivated such pieces. I found it a challenge to break through those flaws and see if the material would break. All did, eventually. It was frustrating: I would not achieve my own perfection if I could not have a suitable backdrop. I was a carver, as my Master bid me, but I wished to sculpt.  
  
Turning my attention back to my task, I took another long gash out of the surface, and then methodically began to carve my vision to life. Bits and pieces went flying everywhere as I changed from tool to tool: from hollowed prong, to knife, to a large hammer and chisel, then to a smaller one. I smoothed away the edges and stood back, panting from exertion and exhilaration, and when I thought I could take no more -  
  
I released my hold on the girl's mind and let her scream from her small, red mouth. The blood seeped into the wood and floor as it dripped from her barely recognizable form. Her long black hair lay on the floor, cut off with the scalp. I could feel the pain thrumming through her senses, but I kept her on the edge, reveling in her sick fear, and mind numbing pain. And when I felt her reach a pitch, I pushed her over.  
  
The light in her gray eyes died, and I let my thoughts sink into her fading mind, giving a soft caress. Her death gave me a closer look into the mystery of that unawareness, and I smiled again, turning on my heel.  
  
My Master stood there, his face relaxed into a pleased smile. I dropped to my knees, head bowing, my voice whispering out smoothly, dark, but with all the reverence I held for this man. "Master. I present you with this, a gift." I hadn't expected him, but then, that hardly mattered.  
  
He stepped forward into the room filled with the coppery tang of blood, gazing over the body strapped to the table, and then he turned to me, his fingers digging through my hair gently, as, perhaps, a mother would stroke her child's head. "Very good. I appreciate it." His tone took out an amused flavor. "But not up to your usual standards." Before I could say anything, he crooned to me. "Or perhaps it is the material. How would you like the finest marble?"  
  
His eyes met mine, and I allowed myself a brief, excited smile.  
  
I was to become a sculptor. 


End file.
